His Certain Hands
by JastaElf
Summary: Legolas is brought to Imladris after being desperately wounded. It is up to Elrond to heal his body and spirit. Dedicated to Sildil as she recovers!


_**His Certain Hands**_

by JastaElf

dedicated to Sildil as she recovers,

with thanks to the Powers for her safety!

**Rating:** M

**Slash:** Why yes, yes it is…

**Pairing:** Legolas/Elrond

**Word Count:** 4095

**Warnings:** Slash. Aftermath of a LOT of battle injuries. VERY mild voyeurism.

**Written For:** Sildil, as she recovers from surgery!

It was very quiet in the valley of Imladris.

How he had come to be so deeply injured was now of secondary incidence to the fact that Legolas was, in fact, in a very bad way indeed. All around, everything seemed muted as a result; ever since the slow, anxious caravan had wended its way into the Valley, one would have thought it the dead of winter, so silent was everything. Few birds stirred, and those seemed to go about their business quietly, on tip-claws, as it were. Even the horses made little noise in the stables and paddocks, while the dogs barely whined and the cats, silent as always, said very little as they did what cats do.

The two-legged denizens of the House—the family of Elrond in all its many parts, and those who loved them—seemed to move about on cat's feet themselves, more silent than Elves generally were, even the Human and Peredhil among them. For there was more than just one casualty of the past month's events, and not all wounds are open and visible upon the body. That was surely a lesson everyone in Imladris knew all too well, given the history of the place and its ruling family.

Outside of the Hall of Healing, the sons of Elrond—two Elven, darkling Twins, mirror-images of one another, and one Human, as much beloved as if he had come forth by the same means as the other two—put their heads together and tried to hear something—anything!—through the closed door. Estel was all for simply opening it and walking boldly in, though that was his way; the Twins did not want to risk sundering the fragile peace of the chamber beyond, and thus were less gamesome in that regard only.

"I am worried for them both!" the Human grumbled, upon the third time of being told to take his hand off the latch—this time words being accompanied by a short warning slap.

"You think we are not?" Elrohir demanded, scowling. They both fell silent as Elladan waved at them from his position crouched by the keyhole; fraught and tense, the three of them listened—only to hear nothing.

"Perhaps Legolas has finally fallen into true sleep," Elrohir whispered.

Elladan sighed and rose, steadying himself on Estel's arm. "I cannot tell; all is quiet in there, yet the lamp still burns and I swear I have heard naught for far too long." He pulled a rueful face and gave his brothers a lopsided smile, shaking his head. "We may simply have to give up and assume Adar has everything well in hand."

They moved a short way down the corridor and pushed open the doors that led to a nearby balcony, overlooking the solemn peacefulness of the gardens. Each was lost for a while in their thoughts. It had been a rough several days since a desperately injured Legolas, out of his mind with fever and pain, had been brought back to Imladris by the Rangers who sometimes ran with the Twins and Estel. No one seemed to know exactly how he had gotten into this state; the Rangers had found him on the fringe of the High Pass, his horse dead beside him and some sign that perhaps the minions of Shadow had been involved. That was all: one dead horse, some desultory Orc sign but no bodies, and a fading prince-warrior—with a bad blow to his left temple that had rendered him sightless, and internal bleeding from a number of wounds that had left him weak, perhaps dying. Perforce they had brought him as swiftly and gently as possible to Elrond, who was not only known as one of Ennor's greatest healers—but also was the Prince's beloved.

Legolas had only regained consciousness a handful of times since the dark, wet night on which he returned. It was very clear that he remembered nothing of what had transpired, and in fact seemed unaware of how badly he was hurt—such that it had taken a great deal of cunning and a lot of drugging to keep him in bed. Just this very evening, nearly at his wit's end for worry and exhaustion brought on by tending his injured lover, Elrond had announced he was planning on resting in the Hall of Healing—and that no one was to disturb him or Legolas, no matter what.

He had risen from the table then, pausing dramatically in the doorway of the dining hall to look back at a bemused Glorfindel, a worried trio of sons, one very anxious daughter, and a primly disapproving Erestor.

"No matter what!" he repeated, raising one finger in a scholar's gesture of emphasis. "I _mean_ it."

And thus he disappeared in a swirl of deep indigo silk, the torchlight in the hall glittering off the silver embroidery along his robe's hem and cincture….

"We have heard nothing for some time now," Elrohir said quietly, after a long silence. "It is late; perhaps it were best we simply went to bed ourselves. If Adar stays up all night with Legolas, he will need us fresh and hale come morning to spell him so he can have his rest."

They agreed this was a good plan, and reluctantly shuffled off toward their bedchambers.

Inside the private chamber within the many peaceful rooms of the Healing Hall, Elrond listened at the other side of the door and breathed a silent relieved huff to hear retreating footsteps. He quietly locked the door just in case—one never knew what might happen, after all!—and returned to the bed in which his injured beloved lay.

Worry all aside, Legolas truly did look better than he had a few days past—which was not saying a great deal. His vision had not completely returned with tending, though he could at least apparently see vague shapes and light and shadow. His wounds were mending slowly, but at least they were mending. Legolas had been given plenty of fluids to make up for the blood loss, and what little soft or liquid food they had gotten into him had gone a long way toward refreshing his sorely-used body. However, as Elrond sat there in the soft, dim lamplight gazing down at the beloved face slack with reverie and herbal nostrums, he could not help but shake his head.

_Every time I let you out of my sight for even as little as a week,_ he thought, gentling one hand over the silken pale locks of his beloved, _I get you back in a basket. Why** is** that?_

Of course, he knew the answer all too well. The world was not now what it had been in happier days—and if Elrond were completely honest with himself, he would have to acknowledge that 'happier days' had existed in some nebulous time before his own sundered childhood. Perhaps those mythical times had been before the end of Doriath, when fair Luthien still danced in the protected forest… certainly they had to have been before the creation of the Silmarils. If the days since Elrond's own birth had been less than safe and not as blissful, what then to make of the world into which all their children had been born—the Twins, Arwen, Estel—and Legolas himself?

With a light sigh, Elrond settled in to giving his beloved one last examination before it was time for them both to rest, in each other's arms for a change. He peeled back the soft coverlet; his brow furrowed at the sight of the many bruises and contusions still besmirching Legolas's flesh. _How dare they!_ he fumed, growling to contemplate that he had no idea for certain who 'they' even were—but wishing he could give them the business end of his sword anyway. His hands, healer's hands, worked efficiently to cleanse and soothe, changing bandages, noting with relief that the injuries were healing as well as one could expect. Blinking away tears, Elrond bent down to kiss the smooth but bruise-mottled flesh just above one of the worst wounds, a deep, jagged cut made by some indifferently-skilled hand in the effort to get to the liver of the son of Thranduil.

Legolas stirred fitfully, giving a breathy moan from the depths of sleep. Without particular volition Elrond's hands moved to soothe, to gentle away whatever had disturbed his beloved; he leaned close, kissing that familiar mouth softened by reverie, aware that of late when he had been in Legolas's company those same lips had more often than not been drawn tight with worry and concern for the ever-darkening state of his homeland. Many had been the nights he had tried to soothe away that tension, ease the worry if only for a little while… Just as then, though innocent now with sleep, his beautiful prince smiled faintly and moved as if to cross any distance, however small, that separated him from his lover.

Elrond's hands stilled; he caught and held a breath, not wanting to steal Legolas's rest. A soft complaint of loss was the pale prince's response; a murmur of insistent want rose up before he subsided once again into restless somnolence, his brow furrowed. Elrond waited a moment longer, then lowered his lips softly to those of his young love.

It was meant to be a single kiss, a good-night benison—but Legolas was not willing to relinquish what was so hard-won, no matter what his level of waking. Fighting his way up through the murk of potions and herbals, he nibbled back at those lips; his tongue snaked out as if in thirst, teasing across Elrond's mouth.

"Shhh, _meleth_," Elrond murmured, his breath ghosting over Legolas's cheek. "No need to waken now; rest, be at peace. I am here."

Legolas murmured softly, then briefly tossed his head and cried out at the pain it caused. "No—no!" he said brokenly, his expression twisting; his hands reached out clumsily, for they were still heavily bandaged, and it was not possible to tell if he was trying to push Elrond away or pull him closer. "_Daro—saes_—no!"

Realizing his beloved was probably reliving some horrific moment of the attack, Elrond took him carefully into his arms and held him but lightly, fearing to worsen his upset if the embrace were too confining. Murmuring to him constantly in a soothing undertone, the Lord of Imladris dropped gentle kisses along Legolas's jaw line, running one hand through the silken pale hair in a purposefully repetitive gesture intended to anchor the stricken Elf to something more pleasant. After a time it seemed to have an effect, for the Prince's struggles lessened and the frantic expostulations became more those of pain than panic. Gradually and deliberately Elrond increased his hold, letting Legolas's head come to rest where the heart of his Lore-Master beat with steady calm—and like a child in the embrace of its parent, the other began to burrow closer still, making a more satisfied murmur. Elrond rested his cheek briefly against the golden locks and smiled in the dimness.

"I will keep the nightmares at bay—and anything else that dares come near you to harm," he whispered into the leaf-shaped elegance of the ear closest to his lips. Because the target was too tempting, he inched closer and gave the tip of that ear a brief lick and a kiss. "Mayhap you will have more pleasant dreams now, _melethron_."

Legolas stirred again, said something on the threshold of waking, and blinked a time or two; then his eyes cleared of reverie and his dark brows drew together in a faint frown.

"Elrond?"

"It is I, beloved. Rest now… all will be well now that you are safe."

"Nay," Legolas breathed, nuzzling even closer, half-raising one linen-encased hand, too weak to lift it more than an inch or two. Elrond contrived to look puzzled.

"Nay?" he repeated, shifting anxiously on the coverlet. "What is it, my star? Are you in pain? Or just not sufficiently awake to realize you are indeed safe? Which?"

"Not—well," the wounded one murmured, and blinked in the dimness, trying to see through a haze of pain and herbs and… something else. "Cannot—see you… want you… nothing will be well until—until I can—love you…"

The voice trailed off into a sigh, forgivably on the wrong side of petulant. Elrond smiled and gently set one hand over the bandage on Legolas's head, right where the worse of the injuries had been.

"You have been very badly hurt, _nín mel_. At least thrice now we have nearly lost you to the beckoning of Mandos. If the least of your troubles now is that you feel needful and cannot have what you want, then perhaps at long last you have turned the corner toward recovery." As he channeled healing into that awful wound, Elrond bent to place a soft kiss atop the clean bandage he had put there himself earlier in the evening. "You can see but shadows, and though it is distressing, it nevertheless tells me you will heal completely—for were your sight permanently stolen from you, there would be naught but darkness. Give it time, my impatient love. All will be well!"

"Want you," Legolas sighed, insinuating his nose through the opening of Elrond's nightshirt and inhaling the unique scent of his beloved. "Want you now. I would feel so much better, truly I would!"

"Would you, now?" the Lore-Master whispered back, curling his arms gently but firmly about Legolas and holding him close, every fibre of his being sending healing into the hurts and injuries done to his young love. "Have you become a healer yourself, then, to know what is needful?"

Legolas's lips curved upward in a faint smile tinged with naughtiness. "I know all too well what is needful. I shall not rest, nay, nor shall my sleep be at all beneficial, until this need is met." Though his vision was impaired, still he was able to show the depths of his love for this quiet, compassionate Elf in his eyes as Legolas turned his gaze upward. Again one hand attempted to rise; failed again, and Legolas sighed in frustration. "So oft of late have I felt the cool, soft breath of Námo upon me, though one constant thought returned again and again: I could not depart, for I would miss you so! The feel of your hands, the sound of your voice; your lips upon me, your love all around me—how could I find rest in the Halls of Waiting, bereft of you?"

"You would not have been bereft for long, _melethron,_" Elrond assured him, blinking back tears as he placed kiss after soft kiss on the much-loved face before him, punctuating each word with a little salute of his lips. "Had you succumbed, I would not have been far behind, for my heart would not withstand the loss of you. Fortunately we did not have to face such a thing—and mark me, Prince, it will be long ere I give you leave to go forth alone so again!"

Legolas gave a soft chuckle, the sort of sound that goes from the ear of one who loves, straight down to parts of them that know more intimately the joys of loving in its many forms. So it did for Elrond, who smiled through his tears in relief to hear and feel that which such a sound had to offer.

"I am a prisoner of a mighty lord of battle and law," the wounded one whispered, working closer still rather than attempting to flee. "As I cannot overcome you with my warrior's ways, I shall simply have to… as it were… _submit_ me to your will, give in, and pliantly do as you _command_." One eyebrow twitched with mirth as his near-sightless eyes looked up, soft with desire. "Yet… from one so learned and knowing as yourself, my lord, my master, my keeper, I can but hope for mercy… that you will see the humbled, desperate estate of one under your sway, and give to me what I so desperately need—yea, crave in order to live and breathe!"

Elrond gave a fond snort, though each phrase was conjuring up the most wonderful pictures in his mind's eye. "My prisoner, it would seem, is a dealer in hyperbole rather than war," he retorted, though somewhat to his surprise, he realized his hands were circling ever lower in their soothing ministrations—and that Legolas's sex was stirring in response. His lips quirked in amusement; his right hand, freer to move than the left which encircled Legolas's shoulders, trailed down the pale, well-formed chest within the sleep robe, ghosting over bandages and muscles, past bruises and contusions, toward the proud, smooth column that was rising in the south. "Hmm, evidence that you are indeed healing well, _melethron…_ though it would seem there is some swelling yet. Perhaps if I were to tend this, gently but, hmm, firmly…."

Legolas cried out softly, a low-rising moan of desire, as the hand of his healer-love closed about his flesh and gave a firm downward stroke. Like waves of supplicants bowing at the passage of some great lord, Legolas's body rose and fell, arguing for mastery against Elrond's hands—one that restrained and one that ministered. Ever the healer, the Lord of Imladris made certain his patient was kept sufficiently in check that he did not fall out of bed when nimble, loving lips followed hands and closed over that problematic swelling.

"_Aiya_—Elrond!" the prince exclaimed, his voice hoarse with disuse and desire. Elrond grinned into his task and began to hum. Legolas did not know whether to be scandalized or weep with love and worship as the sound of the hymn of thanks to Elbereth—the one traditionally sung by Elves all throughout Ennor in the evening as the first stars broke out into the skies—rose up from his southern climes, vibrating about his organ accompanied by licks and nibbles. "You are so wonderfully evil—and I love you so! _Ai_!"

Days and nights of need, laced with hints of anxiety and fear of permanent loss, gathered in a tight, delicious coil in his groin—and then burst forth in desperate spurts, accompanied by mingled cries of pain and delight, so close are those two sensations on the sword's edge of loving. Of course it was to keep the bed sheets clean and not make an evening's fuss that Elrond assiduously drank down every drop of the salt-sweet essence, then licked the intermittently-bruised flesh of his beloved just to make sure he missed nothing.

"Won't even need a bed-bath," Legolas whispered, barely audible as he subsided in happy repletion within Elrond's arms, once the healer-lord was finished with his clean-up and had snuggled down under the covers with him. Elrond laughed joyously and bit down only a little hard upon the tempting earlobe near his mouth.

"It gladdens my heart to see that your pains have not taken away your tendency to drollness, my beautiful brat," he murmured, reaching over to the bedside table to pick up a cup of cooled, sweetened tea. "Now, if you are sufficiently pleased at how your lord and master has cared for your needs, perhaps you will gratify him, obedient brat, by taking this tea and getting a good night's sleep for a change? Free of dreams and visions and pain?"

"Free of pain, certainly," Legolas sighed happily, and wriggled briefly under the throes of a delighted shiver. "But I should hope I will still dream of you, my love—this night and always."

"That will content me," Elrond told him, and held the cup to the Prince's lips until he had slowly and carefully consumed it all. Then he turned down the lamp and carefully tucked his beloved in, resting the pale, bandaged head on his shoulder and thanking Eru for Legolas's preservation. "Sleep well, _nín mel_, may the morning bring you even more progress toward full health!"

"I do not want to leave you unfulfilled," Legolas grumbled around a yawn as sleep began once more to overtake him. "What kind of proper lover receives such attentions then falls asleep?"

"One who has been sat upon by Orcs and Uruks, or trolls perhaps, and had come within a breath of dying," Elrond said indulgently, kissing away the frown of consternation that decorated his Prince's face. "Or one that has been drugged helpless by a scheming Lore-Master. And do not think for a moment I will fail to ask you for the full story of your battles when you have awakened, my love. Rest now…"

He smiled at the faint blush that washed over Legolas's pale cheek.

"I meant to… I would have done," Legolas whispered.

"I know, my star. Rest now. We can talk later."

Holding him then, bestowing occasional kisses and much more healing as Legolas progressed deeper and deeper into renewing slumber, Elrond could only thank the Valar over and over, and Eru the one, that this best-beloved of warriors had been spared to stand guard over his heart for however much longer they had. It was an uncertain world, after all, but one thing was clad in iron and immoveable: he loved his Prince with all his heart, and his Prince returned the favour, each watching over the other. That they used different gifts and skills in the doing only cemented the certainty of their devotion. This night it was simply Elrond's turn to do the watching—as watch he did, all through the long night as his beloved rested and healed, secure in his arms and his love.

Out in the hallway, three stunned young males stared at each other in the dimness--then ran back to the locked door.

"Did he—umm," Estel stammered, eyes wide. "Was that—I mean, it sounded like—" His voice trailed off. The Twins tried valiantly to look mature and calm, but they were just as surprised as their younger brother.

"I am certain Legolas was, uhh, crying out in pain, Estel," Elladan began, stopping abruptly when his brother elbowed him. He coughed. "That is—I meant to say—"

"He meant to say Adar is a consummate healer, Estel, and if Legolas is indeed in pain—as I've little doubt, alas, that he is—he will do everything in his power to heal him."

"By—whatever means necessary," Elrohir added, nodding. Fortunately the night hid his blush—and Elladan's amusement, though they all heard his snort. What they all failed to hear was Erestor, coming down the corridor behind them on silent feet; the councilor took each Twin in an earlobe-lock and growled at them lest they cry out.

"You come along with me as well, young Estel," he commanded, hauling the sons of Elrond away from the door and quelling the Man's protests with a look. "I am astounded at all three of you. Listening at keyholes and behaving like voyeurs! Making noise in the hallway while poor Legolas is attempting to recuperate. Shame on you! I will have the lot of you dusting books until the end of the Age, I swear!"

Beyond, in the quiet of the healing hall and their little nest of calm, Legolas slumbered on into health while Elrond smiled in the dark, rejoicing that things were beginning to return to normal around here at last.

**The End**

The title comes from the Willard Wattles poem, "Acceptance", which I offer for the delectation of the reader:

I cannot think nor reason

I only know he came

With hands and feet of healing

And wild heart all aflame.

With eyes that dimmed and softened

At all the things he saw,

And in his pillared singing

I read the marching Law.

I only know he loves me,

Enfolds and understands—

And oh, his heart that holds me,

And oh, his certain hands!

Willard Wattles,

1888-1950

I believe he was writing about Jesus… but I think we can argue with all respect that there are certain Jesus-like qualities about Elrond--and that Elrond is a consummate healer. Also… a lot of Wattles's poetry comes across like the expostulations of a romantically-inclined Wood-Elf….


End file.
